


Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil)

by AlleyMarie



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: April Showers 2015, Drug Use, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyMarie/pseuds/AlleyMarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow needs help with a school paper on poetry, and she enlists Spike to help her understand Symbolism and the bohemian lifestyle of nineteenth century poets. Written in response to a challenge by Dark Magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes place mid-season four – post-Oz, pre-Tara, during the episode "Doomed." All the historical and literary facts are true and correct to the best of my knowledge.

Willow carefully studied the penciled sketch of the beautiful woman. She was clad in the conservative, austere attire befitting a nineteenth century lady, but her passion and fire were unmistakable in the simple sketch drawn so many decades before. _Jean Duval_ , the inscription under the drawing read. There was something inviting and mysterious about her dark beauty. Her eyes conveyed both tenderness and lust, her breasts jutted, lush and proud, sinfully beckoning from under the constricting fabric. 

Maybe it was just the fact that it had been the woman’s lover who had drawn the sketch – it was a portrayal of what he saw when he looked at her. Willow’s lips mouthed the words of the poem inscribed below the drawing. 

_Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,_  
You, my every pleasure! You, my every duty!  
Now you shall recollect the joy of our caresses,  
The sweetness of the hearth and every evening’s beauty,  
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses! 

Willow wondered what it would be like to be loved like that ... no, to be worshiped like that, and to worship in return, with all consuming abandon. To flagrantly forsake all reason and dive unheeding into passion, for the sake of beauty, for the sake of art – passion for the sake of passion. Of course, to be desired and worshiped like that, you’d have to look like _that_. She looked at the drawing again and sighed wistfully. 

A loud snore rudely startled Willow from her reverie. She looked around to see the night-time librarian dutifully sitting at her post behind the desk. The woman wiped a dribble of saliva from the corner of her mouth and gave Willow an embarrassed glance. 

The library was deserted except for the two women, most students having long abandoned their books in favor of the many parties taking place around campus on account of the earthquake. Willow shifted uncomfortably in her chair, correctly guessing that had it not been for her presence, the poor librarian would have been napping at her desk. As it was, she occasionally drifted off when she thought Willow was not looking. Willow could imagine what the woman was thinking. _Why doesn’t this little geek put her books away and go have some fun, like the rest of the normal kids?_

But she had already tried the fun and carefree life earlier that evening, and it had only brought her pain and humiliation, both of which she had in abundance already, thank you very much. She closed her eyes as the scene replayed itself in her mind, Percy’s careless words resounding in her ears:

 _"What, Rosenberg? Yeah, right. She’s just some egghead who tutored me a little in high school. I mean, she’s nice, but, come on, Captain of the nerd squad."_

And what had she done about it? Willow looked at the books splayed on the table in front of her – exhibit number one that Percy had been correct in his assessment – she was an egghead! She had left the party to run to her sanctum, the library, to work on the assigned paper for her Survey of Modern French Literature 18th - 20th Century class. 

"The paper! She groaned. “ _Focus, Willow, focus!_

She started typing, her fingers nimbly flying over the keys of her laptop: **Symbolism began in the late nineteenth century as a reactionist movement against the dense, descriptive method of the naturalistic school of Emile Zola and others. It ...**

She stopped. Willow read what she had just written and frowned. Her facts were correct, but it sounded so academic, so rhetorical ... so far removed from everything that those poets and their words represented. _That’s because you’re as removed from bohemian passions as a stuffed, dusty fish hanging on a wall! Hey! That’s symbolic!_ Her elation was short lived – symbolic, maybe, but hardly evocative of dark passions.  
Of their own volition, her eyes drifted back to the book that laid open in front of her, the volume silently enticing her. She casually turned the pages until her eyes settled on another poem. She began to read and was soon lost in the words:

 _Who cares if you come from paradise or hell,_  
appalling Beauty, artless and monstrous scourge,  
if only your eyes, your smile or your foot reveal  
the Infinite I love and have never known? 

She sighed and stared blankly ahead, the words of the poem dancing in her brain, her thoughts drifting ... drifting, picturing a pair of sparkling blue eyes, a twisted half-smile. 

"Who cares if you come from paradise or hell... SPIKE!" The girl practically squealed when she saw the vampire walk out from between two rows of shelves, as if her very thoughts had summoned him, his head bowed over a book he held in his hands. 

Spike’s head shot up and his usually cool countenance faltered.

"Red?" His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for the nearest escape route. 

Willow swallowed hard – she knew she was blushing. She stared wide eyed as the vampire approached her. She felt oddly guilty, as if he could guess her thoughts merely by looking at her face. _He can’t do that ... can he?_

"Uh, ... hello, Red." 

"Hi Spike! What ... what ... are you doing ... here?" 

Spike frowned. "This is a public place, I have as much right to be here as you! What are _you_ doing here?" 

"Oh, I’m working on a paper ... for one of my classes. I ... I didn’t mean ... I meant ... I know you have every right to be here! I didn’t mean you didn’t ... I was just surprised, that’s all." Willow wished she didn’t sound so confused. She knew what she wanted to say, but somehow, every time she opened her mouth the words came out wrong. 

She nearly jumped out of her seat when the vampire casually flopped down on the chair next to her, his flippant demeanor securely back in place. 

"What you got there, Red?" he asked, trying to see the book she had been reading only a moment before. 

Willow felt another guilty flush wash over her face and neck. She placed her hand on the book and hid it behind the laptop, away from Spike’s prying eyes. "It’s just a volume of poetry. Research ... for my class," she stated matter-of-factly. 

"Hum, poetry. Which one?" Spike asked, still trying to catch a glimpse of the book. 

"Just ... poetry. What do you have?" she suddenly asked, trying to distract his attention from her book. 

Spike looked down at the book in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there.

"Poetry," he mumbled, so low that Willow was not sure she had heard him correctly. 

She leaned forward, trying to read the title of the book, but Spike quickly covered it with his hand. 

After a moment, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "I’ll show you mine if you show me yours." 

"You first!" Willow demanded. 

"Why, you don’t trust me? I’m hurt." 

Willow raised both her eyebrows skeptically. 

"Ok, pet. You win. But if you tell anyone about this, chip or no chip, I’ll kill you!" 

Willow solemnly nodded her agreement. As his hand slowly moved away, she read the title on the cover _The Collected Works of Lord Byron_. 

Willow smiled and nodded again. "It makes sense. You know? Back in high school, I always thought of you as a Lord Byron type!" 

Spike frowned. "A romantic? You think I am a bloody romantic?" He sounded appalled at the notion of being thought about as a romantic by anyone, even if it was just silly little Willow. "Bollocks!" 

Willow was quick to amend. "Oh, no! Not as a romantic – as Lord Byron, you know, ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know." 

Her smile widened when Spike seemed pleased with her assessment of him. _Nice save, Willow!_

"You thought about me in high school?" Spike asked.

Willow cringed inwardly at the question. Of course he wouldn’t let that one slip! 

She looked sheepishly at him through lowered lids, hoping that he wouldn’t see through her pretext. "Kinda’ hard not to, with you constantly trying to kill us and all." 

"Oh." He seemed satisfied with her explanation, if somewhat disappointed. 

Willow was proud of herself for being able to hold her own against the notoriously devious vampire. 

"Your turn now, Red." 

Willow picked up the book in front of her and showed the cover to Spike. The vampire looked at the cover for a moment and threw his head back, laughing loudly at the title he read: _Fleurs du Mal_.

Willow furrowed her brow, unable to understand what was so funny about her book. The librarian cleared her throat, glaring at Willow and her companion. Willow gave the woman an apologetic glance. 

"What’s so funny?" she asked in her best indignant voice. 

Spike had stopped laughing, but an occasional chuckle still escaped his chest. "You? _You_? Little Willow Rosenberg reads Charles Baudelaire poetry? Well, aren’t you full of surprises!" 

Willow was still confused. "What’s so surprising about that?" 

"Red, what do you know about Baudelaire?" 

Willow fidgeted under his intense stare. "Well, he was a nineteenth century poet, translator, and literary and art critic. His works are considered to be the bridge between earlier Romanticism and the emerging Symbolism ..." 

Spike cut her words short with a curt shake of his head.

"I meant, what do you _know_ about Baudelaire?" He pointed one pale, slim finger at the book Willow held in her hand. "Do you know that when that book was first published in 1857, thirteen of its poems were immediately arraigned for offenses to religion and public morality? That six poems were ordered to be removed from the book on grounds of obscenity? _That_ book made Baudelaire notorious as ‘the pornographic poet!’" 

Willow flustered at Spike’s words. She honestly had not expected the vampire to have the vaguest notion about the book. Part of the reason she had chosen Baudelaire’s work as an example of Symbolist poetry for her paper was because she was curious about all the fuss over the eroticism contained in his poems. So far, she had not found anything that struck her as remotely pornographic, which had been disappointing – not that she would share her sense of disappointment with the smirking vampire sitting next to her. 

"It is not pornographic!" she exclaimed defensively. "There isn’t a single poem in here that is ... that way." she protested. 

Spike shook his head. "Not by today’s standards, pet. But still, many of his poems are highly erotic." 

The sound of the word ‘erotic’ coming from Spike’s lips sent a shiver down the red-head’s spine – to be quickly replaced by annoyance when she saw Spike reach into his duster and produce a battered pack of cigarettes. 

"Spike, you can’t smoke in here!" 

His glare was pure contempt. "Red, you would have made a lousy bohemian. No wonder you can’t understand Baudelaire, you wouldn’t know Symbolism if it bit you on the arse!" 

Willow was taken aback by his words. "I do understand Symbolism! And what does Symbolism have to do with you smoking in the library?" 

Spike returned the cigarettes to his pocket and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, sighing in resignation. Judging by his uneasy demeanor, Willow suspected that Spike was about to reveal more of himself to her than he ever had before. She unconsciously leaned forward, hungry for this rare glimpse into the man – or demon in this case. 

"It has everything to do with it, pet. Symbolists were all about rebellion, about challenging the establishment. They protested against everything their previous generation had stood for, ruining their lives in the process, even if their protests were unavailing. Baudelaire captured the quintessence of his age in his poetry, and you’re not going to understand it by sitting here," he made a sweeping gesture indicating their sterile surroundings, "and by being a good girl and following the rules, luv." 

Willow lowered her head in dejection. She knew that at some basic level he was right; she was having a hard time writing about symbolism in a convincing manner because, in reality, she had no idea what she was writing about. 

"It’s not my fault I wasn’t born in 19th century France," she protested weakly, pursing her lip into a pout. 

"That’s the beauty of symbolism, luv. The symbols in poetry are universal, they transcend time and place and seek instead to ‘penetrate those districts of the soul where the monstrous vegetation of the sick mind flourish.’" 

"I don’t think those districts are in my zip code," she pouted. 

Spike scuffed. "Luv, you live on the Hell Mouth, what better place for the sick mind to flourish?" 

An idea started to form in the young woman’s mind as she considered the other’s words. It was daring, it was dangerous, it was ... wonderful! But she doubted that Spike would agree. Still, she had to ask. If only this one time, she had to be daring. And then he would laugh at her, saunter away, and she would get back to her paper. But still, she had to ask. _Do it, Willow. Resolve face._

"Spike, would you show me?" She jutted out her jaw, bracing for the imminent verbal onslaught she was certain would follow. 

He looked genuinely confused, and a little guarded. "Show you what?" 

"What it’s like to be a bohemian. To be free of all conventional restrictions ... to be a rebel." 

Spike seemed to consider her request, and Willow started to feel her resolve weaken. She was about to tell him to forget it, when he spoke. 

"Fine! How much money do you have?" 

Willow’s jaw dropped and she stared at him, aghast. 

"You’re going to charge me for teaching me what it’s like to be a bohemian poet?" 

Spike shrugged. "It’s for class, right?" 

Willow nodded. 

"So, in a sense, it’s like tutoring. And I happen to know that tutors charge for their services, pet." 

He gave her a smug grin. 

Willow groaned as she reached into her purse and counted her money. She placed the fistful of bills and change on the table. "Nineteen dollars and forty-five cents, that’s all I have." 

If Spike was disappointed at the miserly amount, he didn’t show it. He shoved the money in one of the pockets of his duster and rose. 

"Let’s go!" 

"Oh, oh, ok. Just a minute. I need to collect my things." 

Willow was putting the laptop in her backpack when she noticed Spike casually grab the copy of _Fleurs du Mal_ from the table and quickly shove it in next to the computer. 

"Spike! What are you doing?" 

He leaned close to her to whisper in her ear. "We are bohemian poets, remember? We are starving artists who fight against the establishment and sacrifice for the sake of our art. Poetry should not be the privilege of the bourgeois – we need this book, and so we take it," he concluded with a grin. 

Willow furrowed her brow. "Uh, Spike. This is a public library, we can take the book. I just have to check it out with the librarian. I’ll be right back." 

Willow took the book and her library card and walked up to the check-out desk, missing Spike’s roll of the eyes as he looked up at the ceiling. 

"Why, the bloody hell, me?" he muttered.

The mismatched couple stepped out into the night, Willow having handed the book, now legally borrowed, to Spike. He reached into his duster for a cigarette, and Willow rolled her eyes when she noticed the copy of Byron’s Collected Works hidden in one of the interior pockets. She was certain that Spike had never gone up to the counter to check the book out. 

She waited until he lit his cigarette before speaking. "Ok, what first?" 

Spike looked at her and shrugged. "First, we get drunk." 

"Huh?" 

"One should always be drunk!" Spike exclaimed passionately. 

"I don’t think that’s true, Spike. I can think of lots of times when one shouldn’t be drunk ... like when driving ... or, or babysitting ... or when going to visit Aunt Clara who is a recovering alcoholic who can smell a beer five blocks away ..." 

A growl of exasperation escaped Spike’s lips, bringing Willow’s litany to an abrupt end. 

"Red, listen …" 

He took a couple of steps closer, until he was so close that Willow was sure had he not been dead, she would have felt his breath on her cheek. As it was, she was certain that he could hear the erratic, escalating rhythm of her heart. And then, he started to recite: 

" _One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;_  
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's  
horrible burden, one which breaks your shoulders and bows  
you down, you must get drunk without cease."

Willow jumped back, startled, when Spike produced the copy of _Fleurs du Mal_ and pointed at the corresponding page for the poem. 

"Oh, Uh, ok. Then, I guess we get drunk?" 

Spike grabbed Willow’s hand and started to walk across the parking lot, a self-satisfied grin on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

They reached the DeSotos and Spike held the door open for Willow, sweeping his hand in a gesture of invitation. He saw the slightest glimmer of hesitation fleet across her eyes before she put on her resolve face and jumped inside. A knowing smile curved his lips. _For all her demureness, the girl has guts, I have to give her that_ , he thought as he walked around the car and took his seat behind the wheel. 

Spike reached in the back seat and handed Willow a beer from a cooler, taking one for himself. At her questioning look, Spike cleared his throat. "I was planning on getting drunk tonight," he explained with a shrug. 

She looked at him with her wide green eyes, and he wondered if she knew that her eyes held a wisdom and a sadness that belied her young years. 

"Alcohol and Byron, the perfect complements for broodiness," she said.

"I don’t brood, pet. I was aiming more for oblivion." 

She twisted her fingers nervously on her lap, and he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t see pity on her face when he looked back at her. He risked a glance and was relieved when he didn’t see any trace of pity there – only empathy, and maybe a hint of compassion. 

"It must be hard for you ... not being able to be ... well, what you are. But it will get better ... I think." 

He chuckled at her clumsy, if well-meaning, attempt at solace. If truth be told, the red-head had always been an enigma to him. If her eyes held ageless wisdom, her heart was that of a child, and he hoped that it would always remain as such. She was everything he should despise – innocence, compassion, selflessness, and warmth – and yet, he was inexplicably drawn to her, like a moth, or perhaps more appropriately, like a vampire to a flame. An enticing and all-consuming flame that, if he was not careful, could burn him to a cinder. 

He took a long swallow of beer and started the engine. "Well, Red, are you ready to get drunk?" 

She held up the untouched bottle of beer in her hand and smiled. "Working on it!"

He handed her the book and his lighter. "Read the rest of the poem, aloud," he instructed as he pulled out into the road: 

“ _On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk ..._ ” 

As she finished reading the poem, she frowned in concentration. How he loved that intense look on her face! He longed to reach out and smooth the furrows from her face with his cool, dead hand – not that he would dare. 

"I don’t think this means we should literally get drunk, as in drink lots of alcohol," she offered hesitantly. 

"It doesn’t, pet. It’s about passion for life. It means that one should gorge on life. Whatever touches you, stirs you, you should consume it, and continue to consume it, day and night, without end, and let it consume you in return." 

He could feel her eyes burrow into him as she stared intently at his face, his mouth. When he glanced in her direction, he noticed that her little teeth were biting hard into her lip, turning the tender flesh there white. 

"Are you alright, Red?" 

"Uh-huh," was her only reply. 

"That’s what Symbolism is about. You don’t have to be a drunk to appreciate the poem. Anyone, everyone has, or should have, an addiction – a longing that they should, must indulge, over and over." 

Another non-communicative "uh-huh." 

Spike wondered if Willow should have been taking notes on this. Oh well, not his problem, he was holding up his end of the deal. 

"We are here," he announced.

Willow peeked out through a clear spot on the blacked-out window, and he heard her audible gulp, the hesitation in her voice, and the barely perceptible increase in her rate of respiration when she realized that they were parked in front of the graveyard. She wasn’t terrified, but she was certainly disconcerted. 

"Spike, what are we doing here?" 

"Come on, pet. You’ll see." 

Spike led Willow to the back of the cemetery, to one of the oldest crypts in the lot. They stepped inside, slipped through a hidden entrance, down decrepit, rotting steps, to a chamber deep beneath the graveyard. 

Willow’s hands clung tenaciously to the leather of Spike’s duster. The oppressive darkness was pierced by the faint light of the flame of Spike’s lighter. Willow looked curiously around, and a frantic scream tore from her throat at the gruesome sights that surrounded her. All around were rotted corpses, their twisted limbs forming a macabre tapestry that covered every inch of the walls! 

She took off at a dead run, stumbling through the darkness, and Spike worried that she would hurt herself in her haste. Perhaps this had not been such a good idea. He followed closely behind her, throwing his arm around her shoulders when she stopped just outside the crypt. She whirled around, her green eyes turning dark with fury, her hair whipping him across the face. 

"What did you do that for!? You ... you ... AHHHHH!" 

Her little fists pounded harmlessly against his chest as she sucked large gulps of air into her lungs. He allowed her to spend her rage on him before gently guiding her to a large tomb. They sat next to each other. Her anger had subsided, but her eyes still hurled accusatory daggers at him. When she made as if to speak, he silenced her with one of his fingers pressed gently against her lips. He produced the book and began to read by the light of the full moon: 

“ _... Yes, you will come to this, my queen,_  
after the sacraments,  
when you rot underground among  
the bones already there.  
But as their kisses eat you up,  
my Beauty, tell the worms  
I've kept the sacred essence, saved  
the form of my rotted loves!”

Willow listened intently, her mouth agape. When he had finished reading, he looked at Willow, a forlorn expression on his handsome face. 

"Can I just say _ewwww_ to that one?" Willow asked. 

Spike chuckled. "The carcass in the poem is a symbol that conveys the ultimate transience of existence," he explained, "another universal theme. Baudelaire’s themes do tend to be nobler than the subject matter." 

Willow seemed to understand the symbolism behind the poem, but her ire was apparently not yet placated. 

"And what was up with the live horror show?" She pointed at the crypt behind them. 

Spike shrugged, feeling surprisingly contrite. "An ancient Buddhist ritual requires young monks to visit graveyards and observe the rotted corpses. It is supposed to give them a better understanding of the ephemeral nature of humans’ lives. I thought you would appreciate it – bad idea." 

Willow sighed, apparently satisfied by his explanation. "I guess is the thought that counts – but religion just reached a whole new level of creepiness in my book!" 

She paused for a moment. "Spike?" 

"Huh?" 

"How come you know all this stuff?" 

Spike looked at the ground and reached for his pack of cigarettes. "I used to be a poet, before Drussilla turned me?" 

Willow’s eyes grew wide with surprise. "You were a poet?" 

"Don’t get too excited, pet. It was a long time ago, and I was a bloody awful poet even then." He took a long drag of his cigarette. 

Willow smiled, the excitement causing her eyes to shine like polished emeralds. "Yeah, maybe. But you still remember all this stuff, and you still read poetry." 

There was a momentary silence while they pondered the significance, if any, of those facts. 

Willow was the first to speak. "Well, so far I’ve gotten drunk on poetry and explored the ephemeral nature of life and the creepiness of death. What’s next?" 

"Walk for me," Spike requested. 

"What?" 

"Just walk around and let me watch you. Go ahead." He stood and leaned back against the large gravestone, narrowing his eyes and watching her through a haze of cigarette smoke. 

Willow rose to her feet and warily began to walk, surreptitiously glancing at him over her shoulder. Spike opened the book and began to read:

_Even when she walks she seems to dance!_  
Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes  
obedient to the rhythm of the wands  
by which a fakir wakens them to grace... 

Willow continued to walk through the graveyard, casually swaying between the grave stones, but she didn’t wander far. Spike grinned knowingly – she was listening to his words. As the last lines of the poem poured from his lips, Willow walked towards him: 

_... and in her strange symbolic nature_  
angel and sphinx unite,  
where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,  
shining forever, useless as a star,  
the sterile woman's icy majesty. 

She stopped mere inches away from him, her face looking longingly at his. "And what is that poem about?" she whispered. 

The muscles in his jaw clenched and he stared down intently, studying her angelic features, her eyes cloudy with something that was akin to desire, but he knew had to be something else. "It’s about beauty, pet. Forbidden and untouchable beauty, innocently cruel in its aloofness and un-attainability. God, Red, you’re beautiful!" 

He could not stop his lips from descending on hers. He kissed her thoroughly and passionately, his mouth drinking from her like a parched prisoner drinks from an offered cup that could be withdrawn at any moment. 

Her mouth received him, her body leaning into his until he could feel her warmth through both their clothes. At some point their arms must have tangled around each other, because he could feel her desperate hands kneading into his back, pulling him impossibly closer to her, into her. His own hands explored her back, revelling in the softness of her female body, taking into him her warmth. He reached under her top, needing the contact with her skin ... soft, warm, alive ... Forbidden! He ripped his lips from hers with a tortured moan, pushing her away roughly in his torment and desperation. 

The hurt and confusion reflected in her expression tore at his unbeating heart. 

"I’m sorry, luv. I shouldn’t have done that!" he gasped out between un-needed breaths. 

She shook her head, her own breathing ragged, her heart pounding audibly against her constricted chest. 

"Why ... why not? Don’t you want to kiss me?" Her lips trembled and tears pooled in her eyes. 

God, what had he done? He reached for her, and she approached him willingly, her innocent trust twisting the knife already embedded in his gut. Wanting to touch her but needing to hold her at a safe distance at the same time, he grasped her trembling shoulders firmly. 

"I do want to kiss you, Willow. God help me, I want you ... all of you. But it’s not right. We can’t." 

"Why not? Oz is gone ... and so is Dru. We are both alone and hurting ... and you’re all chipped, and safe, and stuff. Why can’t we just ...?" she let her words trail. "Is it me?" 

Spike groaned and turned his eyes towards the dark sky, whatever remnant of a conscience he had battling his demon for control. 

"No, Red. It’s not because of you. It’s because of me ... because of what I am. Because everything good and pure in you would be soiled by my touch. I shouldn’t have even done what I did." 

She started to protest but he silenced her with a stern glare. He needed to dissipate the situation, but he wasn’t ready to part with her company just yet. A place where they were surrounded by people, where he wouldn’t be tempted to ravish her, was their best option. 

He bent down to pick up the book he had dropped on the ground. "Come on." 

He strode ahead, listening to the woman’s hurried steps as she tried to catch up to him. 

"Where are we going?" she asked when they finally reached the car. 

"To a place where we can continue our lessons, pet – safely," he ground out, his voice unintentionally gruff. "Unless ... you want me to take you back to the dorm." 

Willow shook her head emphatically, quickly climbing into the car.


	3. Chapter 3

They drove for a while in an uncomfortable, if bearable, silence. The scenery changed as they travelled into a part of town that Spike was sure Willow would not recognize. He brought the car to a sudden halt in front of a run-down building. After stepping out, he walked around the car to open Willow’s door for her, but she was already out of the car, standing on the sidewalk. 

"Uh, Spike. Are you sure this part of town is ... well, safe?" 

Spike looked around at the dilapidated buildings, the vagrants and transients mingling on the littered sidewalk, some leaning against the unpainted and dirty walls of adjacent buildings, vacant expressions in their eyes. 

"Sure. Why wouldn’t it be safe?" he said.

"Uh, never mind." 

Willow followed Spike through the doorway of a building and down a short flight of stairs. They entered a spacious room decorated with plush, comfortable couches and dinner tables. The place was lighted with red and blue lights that caused the room to shine with a purple iridescence. Everywhere there were candles, and cushions covered with exotic, printed fabrics. On one side of the room was a stage, and a young man with dread-locks in his hair and a brightly printed shirt was spewing out lines of poetry. 

"Spike, what is this place?" Willow asked as he led the way to one of the sofas in the back. 

"It’s a bohemian cafe. A place where artists congregate to socialize with other artists," Spike explained, motioning for Willow to take a seat next to him. "We are in luck, it’s poetry night!" 

A young woman walked up to the pair and placed two napkins and a clean ashtray in front of them. 

"Hello, Spike. What can I get you tonight?"

"The usual. What about you, pet?" 

He turned to look at Willow, who was staring at him in confusion, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. He raised his eyebrows and Willow seemed to snap back to reality. 

"Uh, a Coke will be fine, thank you." 

When the waitress walked away, she turned to look at Spike. "How does she know your name?" 

He shrugged. "I come here some times." 

Actually, he visited the establishment more than occasionally, often enough for the employees to know him by name and remember what he liked to drink. He was sure the fact was not lost on the astute girl. 

The waitress brought their drinks and Willow and Spike sat in companionable silence as they listened to the various poets who took the stage to recite their original compositions. They heard poems with titles as diverse and diverse as _Frogs in Spring_ , and _La Morte_. 

The reading concluded and the first cacophonous notes of Geoffry Morgan’s _Black Cherries and Ice Cream_ came through the speakers. Willow tapped her fingers on the table to the contagious, upbeat rhythm of the music. Spike offered her a cigarette and she declined with a wrinkle of her nose – her lungs were one thing she was not willing to sacrifice to bohemia. 

"You know, I’ve read about these cafes," Willow said over the sound of the music.

“Have you, now?”

Willow nodded. "Artists used to come to these places and get high on hashish, opium or absinthe. They thought that the drugs enhanced the senses of the artist, allowing them to transcend common experience." 

A sinister smile twisted the Spike’s lips. "What do you think, Red?" 

Willow shrugged. "I wouldn’t know anything about that – from personal experience, I mean." 

Spike’s smile turned into a mischievous grin. "Do you want to?" 

"Uh? Want to what?" 

"Enhance your senses, so to speak," he explained, raising an eyebrow. 

Willow wrinkled her forehead. "Uh ... I don’t know ... it’s that illegal. I don’t think I ... we ... I don’t think we should." 

Spike grunted in derision. "I shouldn’t have even asked. Well, let’s go then." 

Willow’s face fell. "Where to?" 

"I’m dropping you off at the dorms and I’m going back to Xander’s. Droopy boy wants me to fix the plumbing for him." 

"Wait! Did you mean it?" 

"Mean what?" 

"About the ... the ... you know. The illegal enhancement thing," Willow whispered. 

"Willow, are you sure?" Spike had only been teasing her; he didn’t actually expect her to agree to get high with him! 

Willow nodded enthusiastically, her resolve face back on. 

Spike grinned. _Oh, what the bloody hell, let the little bint live a little_ , he thought.

He motioned to the waitress, and when the woman approached, he whispered something in her ear, handing her a fifty dollar bill. The waitress motioned for them to follow her, and Spike rose to his feet. Willow followed suit. 

They were led down a corridor in the back of the cafe, lined with several doors. The woman pointed at one of the doors indicating that they should go in and said she’d be right back. Spike opened the door and allowed Willow to enter first. The room was small but cozy. There were two settees facing each other, large pillows on the floor over a Persian rug, and several small round tables. The lights were dim, and the air was scented with the smell of floral candles and incense. 

Spike flopped down familiarly on one of the comfortable sofas and motioned for Willow to do the same. The girl obliged, placing her hands on her lap and closely inspecting every corner of the room with her eyes. Spike wondered if he was doing the right thing, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. For the first time in the course of the evening, the girl looked scared. 

"Red, you don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to, we can still just go." 

Willow shook her head. "Oh, no. I’m fine, really. Looking forward to it, actually. I was just ... just, admiring the decor. Nice!" 

Spike smiled. _Liar,_ he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

The waitress came back carrying a tray. She placed the tray on one of the tables and nodded toward Spike. He thanked her before she turned around and left, softly closing the door behind her. There were two glasses on the tray, as well as two slated spoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, a small pitcher of water, and a small green bottle with the name _La Feé Absinthe_ written on the label. 

Spike looked at Willow as he slowly poured a shot of the green liquid into each of the glasses. He placed one of the spoons across the top of each glass and put two lumps of sugar on each spoon.

"Watch this, pet," he said to Willow. 

Willow moved closer, to the edge of her seat, watching with avid curiosity as Spike lit the sugar on fire and then poured cold water from the pitcher over the sugar cubes. 

"It’s changing color!" she exclaimed excitedly. 

The liquid had changed from its original bright green color to a light, opalescent green. 

Spike picked up one of the spoons and stirred the remainder of the sugar cubes into his glass. Willow watched closely and did the same. 

Spike picked up his glass and waited for Willow to follow his lead. "Bottoms up, Red." 

He threw his head back, draining the liquid from the glass. Willow imitated him, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of wormwood in her mouth. Spike rather enjoyed the coppery taste, but vampire’s senses were probably different than humans. 

"Do you want to listen to some music?" he asked. 

"Sure!" 

Spike walked to the cd-player sitting on the floor in a corner of the room and noticed that someone had left a cd in it. He pushed the play button and the sound of a flute filled the air, joined by the percussive cadence of drums. It was an instrumental piece, both soothing and uplifting, mysterious and whimsical. 

He looked at the woman now reclining on the couch and she dreamily smiled her approval. Walking past her, Spike made his way back to the couch facing hers and laid down, his long legs stretched over the plush arm. He allowed the penetrating rhythm of the music and the languor spreading through his body to lift him, weightlessly, into a bright and comforting oblivion. 

"Spike?" 

"Hu-mm?" 

"Do you really think I’m beautiful?" 

Her words reached him as if carried from a distance on a gentle breeze. 

"You are very beautiful, pet. Like a mythological nymph. A sprite, an innocently wanton spirit that haunts my dreams even when I’m awake. Gawd. You have no idea the things you do to me, the feelings that you stir, the thoughts that race through my mind every time you’re close." 

Spike heard the words echo in the room and wondered for a moment if the voice was his, if he was really saying those things ... to Red? He glanced in her direction and found her eyes intently focused on him, her lips slightly parted. _Is she looking at me or through me?_ he wondered. 

As in answer to his unasked question, she slithered from the couch and crawled the short distance that divided them. She lifted one of the cups in her delicate fingers and offered it to him. "More," she said.

Her whispered word sounded like a plea, or was it a command? In either case he could not deny her. His hands followed the practiced ritual they had already performed once that evening. As he consumed the liquid from the cup, slowly this time, he watched the girl in front of him. She had drunk the liquid down in one gulp, he assumed because she didn’t enjoy the taste. But then her tongue began a languid dance along the rim of the glass, slowly dipping down to scoop the last traces of the liquid. If Spike didn’t know better, he would have thought the little chit was trying to seduce him. And, oh God, did he want to be seduced! 

Through lowered lids he watched her playful tongue do things to that glass that he wanted done on an entirely different surface. He was vaguely aware of his own tongue peeking out from between his moistened lips, like a twin snake, subtly imitating the wanton dance of its mate. Her forward lean was almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes to his heightened senses. 

He motioned for her to join him on the settee, scooting backwards and dropping one leg over the side to allow her slender hips to fit between his thighs. She accepted the invitation with only a hint of hesitation. She wriggled around a little bit, until she was comfortable, and then leaned back against his chest, gradually relaxing. And so they sat, two specters cocooned in a warm haze of sounds and colors that nurtured an alternate reality all its own.

He ran his fingers through her hair and brought a lock to his face, savoring the smell of it, the soft feel of it against his skin. He was keenly aware of her warmth, her breath, the beating of her heart, the scent of the blood. If he closed his eyes and listened hard, he could hear the rushing sound of the life-force cursing through her body. In his relaxed state, the thought of biting the girl didn’t even cross his mind. 

Something soft, wet and yielding pressed against his chest and he opened his eyes to see that Willow had turned herself around and now lay facing him. Her hands rested against his chest, her breasts softly pressing against his rib-cage. Her mouth shyly explored his chest over the t-shirt, landing random butterfly kisses over his torso. 

"Uh ... pet? Red, what are you doing?" 

"It’s just ... it’s just something I’ve always wanted to do. You know ... have you ever wanted to do something silly, for no reason at all?" 

Spike nodded, mesmerized by the intense shine in her eyes. 

"Well ... I’ve always wanted to kiss your chest." She giggled at her own confession. "Every time I see you, I look at you and all I can think is ‘I wonder what his skin tastes like.’ Is that silly?" 

He shook his head, struggling to keep himself from grabbing her arms and dragging her upward to ravish her mouth. _Were her lips always that red, that lush?_

Her hands pushed his shirt up, baring his midriff. She continued to press her lips lightly across his skin. He knew that he should push her away, but he loathed the thought of seeing the look of hurt and disappointment in her eyes again. The tip of her tongue came out and hesitantly tasted him. He had to dig his nails into the fabric of the couch to keep his body from bucking against her. Her little licks felt like pins pricking his skin – it was a mild and pleasurable pain. Just when a roar that he wasn’t sure he could contain started to build in his chest, she stopped. He looked down to see what she would do next, and his intense eyes met her soft ones. 

"Thank you," she whispered. 

"For what?" 

"For everything you’ve taught me." 

A smile curled his lips. "And what, exactly, have you learned?" His hand reached up to casually caress her hip with the tip of his fingers. 

Willow’s face grew serious. "I’ve learned that a human’s life is short and fleeting, that death is gruesome and final, that we all should indulge our passions in order to lessen the burdens of life ... and I learned that big-bad Spike thinks I’m beautiful." 

"A bargain for a bloody twenty quid, if you ask me!" 

She scooted upward over his body, the motion almost making him groan. 

"Spike..." 

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Red?" 

"You’re my passion ... I want to get drunk on you, and stay drunk." 

Before he could react, her lips descended on his. The kiss was clumsy and chaste at first. He opened his mouth to protest and her tongue darted in, deepening the contact, building a rhythm. 

He returned the kiss for a while before gently turning away, pressing his lips against her cheek. "You don’t really want this, luv. It’s the absinthe, the toxin in your blood." 

Willow pulled her head back to look down at him, her eyes amazingly clear. She shook her head. "I don’t think so, Spike. I’ve wanted this ... you ... for a long time. But first you were all grrrrr and scary, and then there was Oz, and then I didn’t know how ... how to tell you. I thought you would probably laugh at me ... or say something unbelievably insightful and cruel ... Oh God! You are not gonna laugh at me, are you?" 

Spike growled in response and his arms snaked around her. He kissed her, open mouthed and hard. His body undulated frantically under hers, desperate for the contact. He rolled them both from the settee, onto the floor, careful not to land with his full weight on her. Their mouths never lost contact, his hands continuing their frantic assault on her body – kneading, rubbing, pulling at her clothes.

The thought crossed his mind that his fervor may be scaring the girl. He pulled back, searching her face for reassurance that she was ok with this. What he saw there would have taken his breath away if he had one. She laid splayed on the floor, her breasts heaving, her hair tussled, her lips moist and swollen ... but it was the look of naked lust he saw in her wide eyes that was his undoing. 

She whimpered when he slid down her body, away from her mouth, the pitiful noise turning into a moan when he removed her shoes and reverently kissed her feet. He knelt next to her, his hands shaking as he undid the zipper and pulled down her pants, baring her long legs. His hands massaged their way back up to her waist, his lips twisting into a grin when her hips lifted and swayed, searching for a more intimate contact with his hands.

He bent over her and placed a kiss on her stomach, hooking his fingers under the elastic of her prim white cotton panties. As he slowly lowered the article of clothing, his mouth trailed a path down the newly bared skin. He kissed her stomach, her hipbones, her mound and down her legs, knees and ankles. 

"Gawd, woman, you taste so good – smell wonderful." 

A tiny gasp escaped her lips when he grabbed her ankles and roughly parted her legs. She instinctively tried to close them back up, to shield her body from his eyes. 

" _Don’t_! Don’t hide yourself from me, I want to look at you." 

His eyes traveled from her small feet, up her legs and thighs, and he felt her tremble when he devoured her open sex with his eyes, the tip of his tongue lightly brushing against his upper lip. He looked back at her face. It was flushed crimson and her eyes were open wide, but the desire in them was as strong as ever, perhaps stronger. 

"I want to see more, show me Wil’, take off your shirt." 

Her shaking hands pulled the shirt over her head, but hesitated at the fastening of her bra. 

"More," he encouraged. 

He was still kneeling by her feet, his arms now resting at his sides. Only his words and his eyes held her in place, she could get up and walk away, or refuse, anytime she wanted. She ripped away her bra with an air of defiance and tossed it aside, leaning on her elbows to give him a better look of her breasts. Her bold move surprised him. 

She was completely naked now, except for a thin gold chain and pendant that hung down between her breast, a necklace made of small lilac beads, and a pair of sparkling earrings. He stood, his eyes never leaving her body. The leather duster was the first to go, followed by his shirt. Boots and pants quickly followed, until he was as naked as her. He stood above her, feet planted on each side of her body and allowed her to get her fill of looking at him. When the tension got too much and they both craved contact with each other, he dropped to his knees, straddling her thighs. Willow sat up, her mouth hungrily searching for his. He kissed her briefly, before gently pushing her shoulders back down to the floor. 

"Keep your eyes on me, pet. Don’t look away." 

He could read the disappointment and confusion as he started to recite to her once more. His voice was low and melodious, and he could only imagine the effect it was having on her sensitive senses: 

“ _The beloved was naked, and knowing my heart,_  
_had retained only her vibrant jewels,_  
_whose pageantry gave to her a rich and conquering air_  
_such as belonged, on languorous days, to Moorish concubines._ " 

He watched as her skin blushed pink and her muscles trembled. The flickering candlelight danced on her flushed skin. He rocked his hips back and forth – a small, controlled movement – meant to entice, but not satisfy. A gasp that turned into a low whimper escaped her lips. He continued:

" _This world radiant of metal and rock_  
_ravishes me, and when its bright_  
_and mocking noise leaps in dance, I madly love_  
_those things in which sound is mixed with light._ " 

He held her eyes spellbound as his fingers splayed across his own chest, traveling downward until his fist was wrapped around his own manhood. There was uncertainty in her expression at first, but after a moment, an approving smile spread across her lips as she watched intently to the vampire hovering above her, pleasuring himself while his eyes intently traveled the length of her body: 

" _She lay thus, abandoned to love,_  
_and from the height of the couch, smiled_  
_carelessly at my ardor that rose, deep and fragrant as the sea,_  
_mounting toward her as toward a pale cliff._ " 

Quickly catching on to this new and strange game, Willow brought her hands to her chest, tentatively massaging her own breasts, cupping them in her hands and pushing them forward, as an offering to him. 

Spike moaned and squeezed himself tight, trying to control his own mounting desire. His voice was raspy and his mind fogged by lust – he was barely able to get out the next lines of the poem: 

" _Eyeing me like a tamed tiger,_  
_she posed with a vague and dreamy air,_  
_and candor, being joined to shamelessness,_  
_gave fresh charm to all her metamorphoses._ " 

With the last words he was on her. His lips took her mouth, hard and furious, only to abandon it in favor of her long neck and delicate shoulders. He kissed, sucked, and licked until her skin was wet and rosy. Down he traveled, his lips hungrily searching for her breasts – and when he found them, her back arched and her head flew back in a silent scream. When he abandoned her breast and moved slowly downward, he felt desperate hands grasping at his back trying to pull him back up, as sharp little nails dug into his flesh. 

He raked her body with his eyes and soothed it with his hands, until he was kneeling between her open thighs. He brought one of her legs up to rest on his shoulder and turned his head to worship the tender skin of her thigh with his lips and tongue. She gasped raggedly when he captured a piece of flesh with his teeth and gently tugged, before lowering her leg back to the floor. His erect cock hovered just short of touching her slit, and she pushed herself forward, grinding her wet folds against it. He allowed the contact only for a few moments, until she was panting and grinding, her body undulating and her eyes pleading – and then he moved back slightly, denying her the friction.

Her body shone with a light film of sweat, and her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, her hands grasping at air. He had spent a century building his self-control, fine-tuning it to the point where he could spend hours enjoying this game, not allowing either of them the release they craved. But he knew that she was new to this and probably could not take much more. He loved watching her like that, aroused and desperate, her eyes begging him to end the torment. 

"Touch yourself" he whispered.

Her hand flew to the place where she ached the most, the tender flesh between her legs. But he caught her wrist before she could reach her target. Gently, he placed her hand on her breast. He slipped a single finger between her swollen folds, spreading her clear fluids around with a light touch that he knew was not enough to satisfy the craving she was feeling. Through hooded lids, he watched her body writhe and undulate before him, her hands now roughly massaging her own breasts, desperately pulling at the nipples. Her lust brought the blood to the surface of her skin, washing her body in a pink glow. The scent of her blood and her desire surrounded him like a dense fog: 

" _Polished with oil, undulant like a swan,_  
_arm and leg, thigh and loins passed before my serene and clairvoyant eyes;_  
_while her belly and breasts, fruits of my vine,_  
_Hovered, more seductive than Fallen Angels,_  
_to trouble the repose in which my soul lay,_ _and to lure it from the crystal rock where,_ _calm and solitary, it had been enthroned._ " 

He suddenly pushed a finger deep inside her, pulling it out just as quickly, only to replace it with two when tears of frustration welled in her eyes. His fingers moved slowly back and forth inside her, her hips leaving the floor and lifting to meet each thrust, until he thought she would bend her body in half:

" _I thought I saw the hips of Antiope_  
_joined by a new design to a boyish torso,_  
_so that her figure thrust forth its pelvis--_  
_how superb the rouge on this brown and tawny complexion!_ " 

He took in her disheveled countenance. Her damp hair was in wild disarray, her eyes were almost closed, her skin was pink and shining with perspiration, and her mouth was open, gasping for breath. He smiled. 

"What do you think, luv? Are you drunk enough?" 

She shook her head no, and then nodded yes, her mind no longer able to form coherent thoughts. 

"Have you drunk enough of me, or do you want more?" 

"More! More!" 

"More teasing? I can keep this going for hours, you know."

She frantically shook her head no, her hair flailing around her face. 

"More of you! Please, _now_!" 

Taking only a moment to position himself, he hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed forward, entering her with one hard thrust. He pushed down with his body until her knees were almost resting on her shoulders and he drowned her loud moans and near screams of pleasure with his mouth. He loved to hear her voice mumbling incoherently, chanting his name over and over, encouraging him even as he pounded her body with his. There was no need for gentleness or reassurances now, that would come later, but at that moment, he knew he could have ripped her in half and she would not have cared – but there were people out in the cafe and it wouldn’t do for someone to become concerned and come barging in. 

He pressed down toward the floor, never breaking his rhythm, until their bodies were flush against each other and each thrust created friction down their lengths – from their chests down to where their bodies joined. Her body arched and tensed and he pushed them both over the edge with one final, savage thrust. He rode her for a few more strokes, until her body relaxed and her eyes drifted close. Gently lowering her limp legs to the floor, he pulled back and looked at her, anxiously waiting for the moment when he knew reality would again set in. 

She opened her eyes and looked at him, a serene smile curling her lips. Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on her lips, smiling when she sighed in contentment. He allowed her to lay there for a while, enjoying the sight of a content and well sated woman, while he whispered: 

" _The lamp had resigned itself to dying._  
_The hearth alone illuminated the room,_  
_and each time it heaved forth a flaming sigh,_  
_flooded her amber skin with blood!_

"Well, that concludes tonight’s lesson. I have to get you home before someone notices you’re missing and sends out the cavalry." 

Willow groaned, but started to get up, only to collapse in his arms. 

"Are you alright, pet?" 

"U-hum, I think I’m still drunk on you!" 

He smiled. "I want you to stay that way, always." 

A half hour and one surreptitious trip to the cafe’s restroom later, Spike led Willow out of the café and back to the car. As Spike entered the car, he noticed the way Willow’s eyes shifted uncomfortably around, how she nervously twisted her fingers on her lap. He shut his eyes tight and swallowed the lump of dread in his chest. 

"Regrets already, Red?" 

Willow looked at him, shaking her head sharply, eyes wide. 

"Nope, no regrets here! I’m all regret-free – honest!" 

He let out the unnecessary breath he had been holding. He really had no idea what he would have said to her if she would have started crying and rationalizing what had happened between them.

"What’s the problem then, luv?" 

"Well ... it’s just ... that ... that ... do you think they can tell?" She plucked nervously at the fabric of her shirt. 

"Who -- what?" 

She looked around at the now nearly deserted street. "You know, people. Do you think they can tell what we did?" 

Spike could not help but laugh and wonder if this girl was the same woman that less than an hour prior had been naked and spread wide on the floor, encouraging – no, begging – him to shag her! "Well, pet, you look well shagged if that’s what you’re asking." 

He felt a pang of regret when he saw the look of mortification on her face. "You look beautiful," he added. 

They pulled up to the parking lot in front of the dorms. 

"We’re here," Spike announced unnecessarily. 

"Yeaph, here we are." 

After a moment, Willow reached for the handle on the door. Before she stepped out of the car, Spike stopped her. 

"Hang on a sec, Red." 

He reached into the glove compartment and handed Willow a folded piece of paper. She looked at him questioningly and was about to unfold it, when a group of drunken students, no doubt back from a party, walked by the car. She put the paper into her back pack and quickly stepped out. 

"Uh, bye, Spike."

"Bye, Wil'." 

He winked at her and Willow smiled before slamming the car door shut. 

After a quick shower, Willow was about to climb into her bed when she remembered the sheet of paper that Spike had handed her. She ran to her backpack and pulled it out. The creases in the folds were deep and the paper was slightly crumpled, as if it had been in the glove compartment of the car for some time.

She carefully unfolded the large sheet of sketch paper and gasped when she saw her image, or at least, a semblance of her image, sketched in pencil. The eyes of the girl in the drawing were wide and mischievous and the head was tilted back slightly, her lips parted in silent invitation. She read the lines scribbled in pencil just below the picture:

 _She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid_  
_Without whom the world's onward dream would fade,_  
_That bodily beauty is the supreme gift_  
_Which may from every sin the terror lift._  
_Hell she ignores, and Purgatory defies;_  
_And when black Night shall roll before her eyes,_  
_She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn,_  
_Without remorse or hate - as one reborn._

On the lower right hand corner of the sheet, was a carefully scripted signature – _William_. 

~ The End ~


End file.
